


Grace

by gallantrejoinder



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: And there's a bit of, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Praise Kink, Really endless descriptions of nature in a country I've never been to?, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Uhh it's an AU where Brother Geraldus never shows up and ruins shit, too - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: He has not known kindness in so long.The little monk changes that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just started a new job and am so behind on my other WIPs it's not funny so OBVIOUSLY the solution is to ... start a new fic!

When he first washed ashore all those many months ago, he wept bitter tears at the faint awareness, in the weak vestiges of his consciousness, that he had survived. Whether or not it was a sin to let himself sink into the greedy ocean was not worth considering – the only thing that mattered was that he was _ready_ to, and yet did not.

He cannot understand why death rejected him. God of course should, for he knows he is a sinner of the unforgiveable sort. Whatever love, kindness, acceptance, that God is meant to represent … these virtues are so far from his mind that it does not even occur to him to ask for them. To pray for God’s mercy in some other form than death.

He has not known tenderness in a very long time, and is aware of that, in some distant part of his heart. It is doubtful that he would recognise it. He certainly does not recognise himself anymore, though his body, despite the fever, is recovered. The same strength which cut through men like ribbons is put to use in hard labour for the monks now, ploughing, fishing, fetching, carrying, building … It is all routine. Mindless, simple work, leaving him so mercifully exhausted that every once in a while, the ghosts of his men and his dead do not come at night.

Perhaps that is why, when tenderness finally does come, it feels like grace.

(That is blasphemy, he’s quite sure, but there are worse sins than that. He should know.)

It is a particularly difficult day, with regards to his ghosts. They’re at his back all the time, hounding him, and no matter how hard he labours, it is not enough. Still, today’s labours are intensive regardless of his suffering. The monks are building a small outer shelter, for guests and travellers. Heavy stones and logs are required to construct a shelter strong enough to survive the coastal winds. As he is the strongest amongst them – and not bound by their hours of prayer – it falls to him to drag most of the key pieces together before they are assembled.

Attempting to outrun his ghosts has never been effective. But he can work, emptying his spirit as a poor substitute.

At the end of it all, sweating and warm despite the chill of the ocean breeze, he sits heavily on a boulder, and sighs. The two monks which have assisted him nod their thanks, and hurry away to their prayers, leaving him alone. Truth be told he is torn between following them for their company, and staying where he is in order to find some measure of solitude. The monastery is always busy, however few of them there may be.

He decides to stay where he is. His eyes fall shut, and he breathes, breathes until his body begins to cool. When he is almost uncomfortably cold, he opens his eyes, and startles to realise he is being watched.

He blinks, but the apparition standing a few strides away, silhouetted by the setting sun, does not disappear. He takes in the shape of the robes, the slight figure, and realises it’s only another monk. No ghosts have made themselves known to his eyes.

He cocks his head to the side, acknowledging the figure, which moves forward hesitantly, almost sheepishly. The features reveal themselves slowly as the lad moves out of the blinding sunset – a straight nose, a worried mouth, brown curls. He realises that this is the boy who found him. The one who called for help when he could not drag him up the beach.

“The others said you were finished for the day,” the monk says. _Diarmuid_. That is his name. “But we did not see you at supper. Will you come and eat?”

He stares at Brother Diarmuid, uncomprehending. Why should the little monk care if he eats?

Brother Diarmuid shuffles nervously.

“You are welcome to join us, you know. I – we – you need not be alone. But perhaps you are praying,” he says, as if it has just occurred to him. “Ah, I am sorry if I interrupted you. I did not think. Brother Ciarán always says I must be more careful of – ah, others’ needs.”

He thinks that this boy would talk all the day away if allowed to. And as he does not speak, the boy probably will.

“I only – I wanted to thank you,” the boy blurts out, too quickly, nearly choking on his own breath. “For what you have done for us. How you have laboured.”

He blinks. Thank him? For this pitiful penance?

“We none of us are so strong.” Diarmuid shakes his head. “We have struggled. Until you arrived. You are … good to us. You are _good_.”

 _You are good_. The words sink into him like stones through water.

“That’s – all I wanted to tell you. That you have been a blessing. Wherever you came from, whatever you have seen. You are good, for us at least.”

 _You are good_.

His heart, slowed by lack of movement, begins to thunder. He does not know why.

“I will – I must attend to prayers,” Diarmuid stutters out, and leaves.

He turns his head to follow the monk as he goes, trying to understand why such small praise, so little deserved, makes his eyes water and his skin crackle with firelight.


	2. Chapter 2

Days pass without comment or notice in the monastery, where the rest of the world seems so lost to him that occasionally he wonders if he’s in purgatory. Purgatory is too good for the likes of him, though, so he never considers it for long. He knows that he is not in Hell. The monks, at least, would never be subject to Hell – least of all Brother Diarmuid.

The little monk has taken to following him as he tends to whatever odd jobs the monks have for him – or perhaps it is the other way around, perhaps he is the one following Brother Diarmuid. His feet wander this way and that, but wherever they go, he finds himself in the company of Brother Diarmuid, listening as he chatters about all manner of things, every stray thought that passes through him. It dulls the noise of his own mind, to have someone to focus in on. Letting the nonsense Brother Diarmuid is quite capable of flow over him sends him into a state almost like prayer some days.

Though he does in fact pray with intention. Early in the morning, when few have awoken, he walks into the woods to be alone. He washes and allows the sharp, cold air to bite him. And he prays. And it hurts.

But that lingering pain fades when Brother Diarmuid asks such things as _who do you think discovered the taste of these berries? If God made man in his image, how can men look so different? Does Brother Ciarán appear especially tired today, so deep into the winter chill_?

He’s right about that last. Winters are harsh here, far more dangerous than the heathen hoards who supposedly haunt the woods nearby. One would have to travel much farther abroad to discover barbarians who live true to men’s natures.

Or so he is inclined to believe. When he thinks about what would happen if such men did exist nearby, if they were to attack the monastery, it makes his throat tighten and his chest seize up with fear. He can think of nothing but fighting then, and blood, and before long he is lost to the world again.

Until Brother Diarmuid’s hesitant voice brings him back.

“We must fix the draughts in the chapel,” he rambles, “or the perpetual flame will certainly go out, and I do not know what would happen then. We are so far away from everything, but men still come for the relic and its miracles, and what would they think if they saw how little we cared for the flame? It would not be long before they tried to take it away, and Brother Cathal is quite sure they could, for we have so little protection … ah, I am sorry.”

Brother Diarmuid turns to look at him from where he has wandered ahead on the cold sand. The rushing of the wind off the ocean dulls his hearing a little, and he looks ahead at Brother Diarmuid questioningly.

“I did not mean to imply you could not protect us,” Brother Diarmuid says, smiling at the corner of his mouth. “I know that you could.”

He thanks God for his silence, now, because he could not bear to break Brother Diarmuid’s faith in him by telling him the truth. Telling him that he could never be trusted to know friend from foe in battle.

“You are more than strong enough,” Brother Diarmuid continues, nodding to himself. “It is only that I hope you shall never have to. I would not ask that of you. Brother Ciarán says –”

But here Brother Diarmuid cuts himself off, and turns away.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches out for Brother Diarmuid’s arm, feeling the rough cloth of his robe underneath his palm. This is the first time he has touched his rescuer, he realises. Though Diarmuid surely touched him, when he suffered his fever …

He realises he is staring at Brother Diarmuid, who bites at the inside of his cheek, looking guilty.

“I would not keep it from you. Only, I do not wish to cause you offence.”

He sets his jaw to stop himself from shaking, and grips the cloth in his hand more firmly. Without his voice, he can only shake his head – a tiny jerk to show he will not take offence. Not from Diarmuid.

Brother Diarmuid leans in close, as if it is a great secret, and lowers his gaze.

He watches, mesmerised. The mouth is so hesitant, always.

“Brother Ciarán says that you were a soldier.”

Oh.

“I thought that must be true.”

Oh.

“But I am not afraid of you.”

He catches the little monk’s eyes, now. Asks a question with his own.

“I … do not know anything of war, other than it has been declared holy. You are one of God’s warriors, are you not?”

One of God’s warriors. He almost forgets that Brother Diarmuid is so young and sheltered sometimes, forgets that the little monk has known nothing of life beyond the monastery.

He does not respond. Brother Diarmuid takes the invitation to continue speaking.

“I know you will never hurt us, or else you would have already. You do not seek the relic. You have not attempted even to see it! You are worthy of our trust, I know it.”

His little monk’s eyes are open and eager. He ought to feel filthy under such a gaze. By speaking not, he lies – he is unworthy of such praise.

But some terrible part of him _longs_ for it.

“We had better get going,” Brother Diarmuid says, embarrassed. He glances down.

He realises he’s still holding on to the cloth of Brother Diarmuid’s robes. It slips through his fingers as he forces them to unclench.

The walk back to the monastery is quiet, for once, but for the crying of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments, I thrive off them :)


	3. Chapter 3

Brother Diarmuid never stops praising him, thanking him, giving him far more kindness than he deserves. But he cannot extricate himself from the strange friendship he has found himself in, cannot avoid Brother Diarmuid and his smiles. It might just kill him to be alone with his thoughts once more. And however much he might deserve such a death … he opens like a flower for the light that Brother Diarmuid so thoughtlessly gives.

A flower. He must be spending too much time indeed with these monks, if he has begun to think himself something as fragile and beautiful as that. He ought to leave the metaphors and poetry to worthier men – men who at least can speak. For now he will fulfil the needs of the monastery, and pretend he has no education to speak of.

One morning, still in the depths of winter, while frost glitters in the grasses, Brother Ciarán makes a  particular request of him.

“We are in need of a moss which grows on the riverbanks,” Brother Ciarán explains, looking harried. “It is very late in the season to find it, but … we are in need. Stocks are running low, and I fear that we may lose some of our own this season if we do not have it. It is medicinal, you see. Keeps away the worst fevers.”

He does not need to understand the reasons any further than that. If this medicine will keep them safe, he will find it without question. He owes them his best efforts. After a few more words to describe the moss and where it may be found, Brother Ciarán sends him on his way.

The forest envelops him slowly as the morning passes, until all that he can hear is the whispering of the trees, and all he can see is green. He tracks down the river quickly, one of the few skills he does not regret learning during war. Then it is a simple matter of following the water, and watching carefully for signs of Brother Ciarán’s precious moss.

He is without his shadow, for once. He could not justify taking Brother Diarmuid away from his chores and his prayers for an entire day, which it well it might take to find a plant like this in the frequent frosts.

Hours pass like leaves in a stream, and he forgets all objectives but one: his quarry. Slowly but surely all other thoughts slip from his mind as he chases the illusive plant deeper into the woods, the shadows and darkness softly cradling his body. He hardly notices the air growing colder, so determined is he to press onwards.

Eventually, though – a different shade of green, almost yellow really, appears in the corner of his eye. It grows weakly on the stones by the river’s edge, and certainly looks like the moss Brother Ciarán had described to him. He examines it a few moments more, noting the distinct pattern of growth. Yes, this must be it.

He sets about gathering it together carefully, tucking it away in a pouch Brother Ciarán had given him especially for this purpose. It is only when the work is done and he is satisfied that he looks up, and realises how long he has been gone.

The late afternoon sun shines through the trees with little strength left for the day. A chill runs over his skin and he shivers, knowing that he must leave immediately if he has any hope of returning before dark. He does not know how to be alone in the darkness. He has never known.

He begins trudging, every nerve crackling with fear, and tries to think of better things. He thinks of the place where the monks let him sleep, with fur and straw, in a little corner of the room where they break their fast and take their supper. They had tried to give him a pallet, tried to bring him closer to the cells for the sake of warmth, but he would not take better than they themselves have for bedding, and nor would he be closer to them than necessary. His screams should torture only his disused throat.

No, those are not safe thoughts. He thinks of the supper which will await him. Thin and watery vegetable soup, and hard bread. But warm. And perhaps they will have meat prepared, perhaps it is a feast day for some obscure saint. Only he cannot assist them with the slaughter. The one time he had attempted it, his fingers had turned numb and he had lost hours until they found him sitting by the ocean and coaxed him back.

He stumbles over a tree root and grunts with surprise, then curses himself for being so frightened. But he cannot help it. All his thoughts lead back to the horrors of battle. His spirit is never quiet, for he is haunted by dead men. The ghosts of his comrades and the barbarians he slaughtered torture him in equal measure.

The darkness is falling thick and fast now. His breathing quickens as he walks faster, clutching the pouch in his fist. He has to keep it safe, has to get it back to Brother Ciarán. But his thoughts are so loud, always crying out.

Except when he is around Brother Diarmuid.

He focuses his attention ahead. If he can pretend –

It is not difficult. Brother Diarmuid is very like his shadow, he is hardly without him but for sleeping. The dark, shifting shapes of the trees ahead could easily be him. The whispers of the forest might be his voice, calling him home. Promising him he will make it. Promising him that he is worthy of safety, worthy of trust, worthy of –

Finally the trees thin, and he breaks into a sprint to reach the edge of the woods. Then it is a simple matter of crossing a field, and he is home, home, home.

A cry, and Brother Rua is there, thanking God for his return, and scolding him for worrying the others. He speaks to him like he is a child, but perhaps he deserves that for acting so foolishly. Perhaps he is indeed a half-wit, as some of the monks suspect.

Upon his return, Brother Ciarán walks towards him, anxiety written in his features. Wordlessly as always, he holds out the moss in its pouch to him. Brother Ciarán stares down at it, uncomprehending for a moment. He reaches out, but instead of taking the pouch, instead grasps his hand firmly.

“You had us all quite worried,” he says softly. “Especially our young novice. Try not to trouble him so again, hmm?”

His smile is a sad one.

“You have been good to us,” he continues, staring him down, as if he is trying to communicate something very important. “And we are grateful. Never forget that. Whoever you were before, you are as good a man as any here.”

He waits for the feeling to wash over him, the wonderful shame of almost believing what good can be said of him. Yet it does not come.

“You had best eat, and then we must all rest from such a day.”

He follows Brother Ciarán into the room where he sleeps and the monks eat, and is treated to lukewarm vegetable soup and bread. It is a better meal than he ever could have expected. One by one the monks retire, and he soon follows, feeling hollow. Sleep does not come easily, despite his exertions, and he sighs, after hours of turning.

He wishes he might have seen –

“I beg your pardon,” a voice whispers nearby.

He sits up suddenly, blinking incredulously into the silver darkness.

“It’s me – it’s me,” the voice continues, reassuring. Of course. _Diarmuid_.

He feels something like hope bloom, terrified and struggling in his chest against every instinct. Diarmuid kneels down beside him, quietly, as if afraid of being found. He can feel the warmth of his body at his side. The white light of the moon illuminates his face, his pinched brow.

“I praise God you are safe,” Diarmuid blurts out. “I do not know what I – what we would do without you.”

He gives him a strange look now, confused. They survived without him for so long.

“You have become – invaluable to us,” Diarmuid continues, earnestly.

He looks down, understanding. He makes their lives easier with his strength, of course. He knew that much. It feels like some part of him is wilting, though he knows it is the simple truth, and one of few things he need not be ashamed of.

But Diarmuid is not finished speaking.

“Truth be told, I value your company. I do not like to be without you.”

He looks up once more, and the feeling from before rushes back with such ferocity he feels as if he should be bowled over.

“I am glad of your safety,” Diarmuid says, looking anywhere but at his face. “I am glad you are come home to us.”

Diarmuid turns tail and strides away, and is gone before he knows how to stop him.

He sits alone and awake in the darkness for a long time, one hand pressed to his chest, feeling the beating of his heart as if anew. He knows now why Brother Ciarán’s words did not affect him, kind words, words of gratitude and praise.

But he knows now too why Diarmuid’s words _did_ , and he is ashamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude work has been kicking my arse lately. Any comments you wanna leave will be deeply appreciated. Tip your author!
> 
> Diarmuid: THIS IS A MARY-JEW-ANA PLANT


	4. Chapter 4

Diarmuid still follows him incessantly. If he ever had any doubts about who followed who, he now knows that regardless of his intentions, Diarmuid has his own. Diarmuid does not seem to have noticed his agitation – the way he stiffens when Diarmuid brushes past him. Unusual, that. Considering how close they have become. Considering how even without words, Diarmuid always seemed to know exactly what he needed before.

But now he is tainted by his own desperation for something more, and he feels as if the well-worn steps of the path they trudge together have been erased, needing to be forged anew. Though he loathes himself for it, to be accepted by a forgiving community, to be given good work to do that harms nobody – suddenly, these things are not enough. Suddenly, he can only think of how long it has been since someone touched him – really touched him, with intent. And he feels as if he is starving for it.

He flinches when Brother Rua kindly claps his shoulder in thanks for a good day’s work. He startles when Brother Cathal gently nudges him out of the way through a door. But it is worst when Diarmuid is near. He cannot stop the hairs on his arms from rising, his skin from crackling, each time Diarmuid is so much as nearby. Every time once-forgotten need pools inside him, his hatred of who he is and who he always will be grows.

He prays, still. The monks rise early, but he rises before even them. The world is quiet so early, only the rushing of the sea from afar brave enough to disturb the reverent silence. Many mornings bring thick mists which Diarmuid tells him are supposed to hide the _aes sídhe_ , and there are frosts too, glittering white in the first light. He shivers and breathes clouds in the cold, but stubbornly keeps to the habit, knowing that however much it hurts, his penance is necessary through prayer.

Yet time is passing, and they are entering the tail end of winter. The mornings are slowly growing just a little warmer – there are just a few less frosts, and more frequently, the whole world turns to gold in the first break of day. On those mornings, he is able to bare himself to God truly, removing his protective, warm layers, and holding out his arms in a plea for forgiveness. Forgiveness for more recent sins now, too.

If he is lucky, his mind is quiet for a few moments. He does not believe that is God, necessarily, but nor does he believe it means nothing. It is quiet. That is enough.

But if he is unlucky, his unquiet spirit becomes lost, and he forgets where he is, who he is, why. He weeps and beats himself until his spirit comes back, and then he returns, feeling heavy and slow, to the monastery. No one sees his bruises. No one knows of the brand upon his back – only the morning and its watchful creatures.

Today he sets off, and it is warmer than he has become accustomed to. The sunlight burns away the mist early, and he decides that today it is worthwhile baring himself to God. The removal of layers of cloth and heat is something no man taught him, but it feels right, to be as he is before God. It a practice rather like those of the penitent masses he has heard tell of, who wander and wail and whip their bare backs into a frenzy. But he has no whip, and no one to tend to wounds he would only reopen.

He would not be able to stand the blood, regardless. His punishment must be in some other form.

And yet some other form comes sooner than he expects.

His breathing is slow and deep. The air cools his lungs, making him feel as if the cold is radiating from within. But the sun is warm on his skin, the longer he stands still to feel it. Today might be peaceful. Today might be free from the spectres of sin.

Branches rustle, a sound which creeps in just below the ear. The slightest quiver of leaf against leaf.

His eyes fly open, and every sense is awakened –

He is being watched.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. A thrill of fear courses down his spine, but it is more for whoever disturbs him than himself. He knows that if he loses himself to bloodshed, no one will make it out alive, no matter how innocent.

It might be one of the monks. An animal, curious, foraging. A stranger lost in the forest.

An enemy.

He lowers his arms slowly. His eyes scan the forest around him, until they snag upon a shadow which sits just a little more still than the branches surrounding. He cocks his head – a challenge, though his heart is racing.

“It’s me,” a voice from the shadows cries out.

His heart nearly stops.

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry, it’s only me.”

Diarmuid comes stumbling out of the shadows, and for a moment he wonders if Diarmuid has come to him as a ghost. But no – his ghosts have never been so sheepishly apologetic.

Diarmuid rushes towards him, hands raised in supplication. His expression is as earnest as always, but there is a blush to his cheeks – some sort of shame.

“Please, do not be angry. I meant no harm.”

He stares at Diarmuid, more than a little curious to hear the little monk’s explanation.

Diarmuid comes to a stop, a few strides away. He drops his hands, and his gaze, before looking up again.

“I only wanted to see where you go each morning,” he admits, finally. “I was curious.”

Curious?

The thought stupefies him, silent as he already is. Why should Diarmuid be curious about how he spends his time when he is alone?

“But now I see you are only at prayer. I apologise.”

He shakes his head. There is no need. Not for Diarmuid – not for simple curiosity. But Diarmuid steps forward, and cannot seem to stop himself from glancing at the bare chest before him, scarred and brutal and ugly as it is. The story of all the violence he has ever known is written on his skin.

For the first time in a long time, he feels self-conscious. It’s like being a boy again, upbraided for messy smudges on his cheeks.

It’s like something else, too, something too fragile and vulnerable and needy to contemplate.

“I want to ask,” Diarmuid confesses, suddenly. “I am sorry. I know you cannot –”

He bites his mouth, cutting himself off. He steps closer, and the hand which twitches at his side does not go unnoticed.

He breathes through the warmth which comes from inside him now. The sun feels cool in comparison.

“I saw your back,” Diarmuid says. “I didn’t mean to. But I thought I must tell you.”

He does not break Diarmuid’s gaze, no matter how he wishes he could.

“Did it hurt?”

He knows Diarmuid is referring to the cross, black and harsh against his skin. But he answers as if Diarmuid is asking about the scars, scars which mar both his skin and his soul, and nods, slowly. If Diarmuid is surprised by this rare affirmative response, he does not show it, but simply smiles sadly.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “I am sorry for it.”

The hand twitches again.

His own hands form fists, fighting against his own longing. For a few moments more, they stand in silence. With the strangest sense of inevitability, Diarmuid raises his hand, and drops his gaze to the largest scar – the one that cuts across his shoulder. A harsh reminder, whenever he is required to lift his arm, of who he is and what he has seen.

“May I?”

The question is not laced with anything more than the wish to understand better. At the monastery, there have never been any soldiers or warriors with scars like his. Diarmuid’s need to touch him is simply the need to learn – to know.

He knows this and yet some part of him, deepest inside his ruined heart, sighs.

He nods his assent. If Diarmuid does not experience temptation, then temptation is not what this will be.

He holds his breath as still as his body, watching all the while as Diarmuid’s fingers near. Finally they brush his shoulder – directly against the scar, without flinching. Diarmuid skims his fingers along it once, before pressing more insistently. He flinches a little then – the scar is not without sensitivity.

“I’m sorry,” Diarmuid says, immediately withdrawing his hand.

He shakes his head, and catches Diarmuid’s wrist in his hand before he realises what he is doing.

He stares at their joined hands in surprise, and looks up to see Diarmuid doing the same. He lets go, afraid – but Diarmuid only smiles. He presses his palm against the scar once more, and inside him, everything falls briefly, mercifully quiet. The ever-present thrum of alertness that fills his waking hours remains, but it is not the focus of his thoughts, for once. All his attention lies within the warm palm against his skin.

Without his notice, his eyes have slipped shut. Diarmuid’s thumb runs along his collar bone, and a thrill races through him.

But all things must end, and cool air rushes over the spot when Diarmuid suddenly removes his hand.

His eyes flutter open to look down at Diarmuid’s expression – there is something in it that he has not seen before. Something to the dart of his eyes and the part of his lips which speaks of surprise. Diarmuid looks up, into his eyes, and there is an inexpressible feeling within them. If he did not know himself to be so unworthy, and Diarmuid so holy, he would wonder if it might be hunger.

But he is a creature born of blood, and Diarmuid is as a saint. His own longings be damned for all he’ll corrupt this soul.

“I will leave you to your prayer,” Diamuid says, not breaking his gaze. “I am sorry for ever interrupting.”

And once more, Diarmuid turns away from him, leaving with the kind of haste born of shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah sorry this took so long to update, work's been super busy! But I'm hoping to keep working on this over the next couple of weeks and get it done. If I'm lucky. Maybe. 
> 
> Remember to tip your writer by commenting! <3


	5. Chapter 5

The days are slowly warming. Sunlight has become a familiar face to greet each day, and the trees bloom greener with every week that passes. But he only feels colder as the world reignites. His heart, beleaguered by sorrow and terror as it is, grows heavy with the knowledge that Diarmuid is avoiding his company.

He ought to approve, to accept God’s will. The holiness he sees in Diarmuid is only revealing itself by driving the boy away from his selfish desires. But he doesn’t approve, or if so, only half-heartedly. He cannot bring himself to regret the pain of wanting, for even the ache of his heart at losing the best part of his new life is sweet. It is the only pain he knows that is without violence.

The other monks continue to work their days away, some writing, some building, some tending gardens and fetching whatever they cannot grow from the woods. He does as they bid, bowing his head to avoid looking them in the eyes, thankful for this second chance even as it hurts.

The only problem is that Brother Ciarán is kind to him. One part of his kindness is in the way he arranges chores in such a way as to allow him to be with Diarmuid.

He does not know how to tell Brother Ciarán that this is not what Diarmuid wants. Diarmuid might tell Brother Ciarán so himself, but from observation, he knows that Diarmuid is not one to make requests or question the order of things – not where Brother Ciarán is involved. And so they continue to work together often, side by side. It is only by the way that Diarmuid is so quiet, so quick to finish his task and leave, that he knows Diarmuid is uncomfortable.

He would make more effort to make things easier for Diarmuid, but, well – he is already mute. There is little more he can do for Diarmuid’s sake than his silence.

As things often go, though, his pathetic attempt at honour by hiding his heart within his hands is ripped away from him.

There is a bird singing. He heard this particular type once as a child, but cannot remember what they are called – only that they are very small, and hard to catch. Their brown feathers blend in with the trees, making their songs sound like spirits, lacking in bodies to carry their voices. It is a little unsettling, the way their joyous trills echo in the woods. Without Diarmuid’s chatter to distract him, he can think of nothing else.

But Diarmuid, walking ahead, does not speak. And he will never dare to ask, through words or looks, for comfort he does not deserve.

Still, the disembodied singing continues. The sun is warm at this time, of course, but the shadows of the trees cause a little chill to grow, and he shivers. They are to fetch some small roots which grow by a particular tree this time of year, and which are good for little more than flavouring broth. But given the state of their broth, the monks are eager for it. Diarmuid is intended to show him the way to the grove of trees today for future expeditions, but he has no doubt that Brother Ciarán will find an excuse to send them both together on the next journey regardless. Countless hours in Diarmuid’s company will make him ache in that sweet-sore way again, as he is now, and he will be – grateful. Desperate, and wanting, and impassive as stone to any outsider. A man without words is a man left with no recourse but to nurse his own heart, and that is for the best.

“The little birds are quite noisy at this time of day, no?”

Startled out of his brooding, he looks up to see Diarmuid glancing back with quick and shifting eyes.  Perhaps he does not care for the silence after all.

“Tiny wrens, that’s what Brother Rua calls them.”

_Wrens_. That was what they were called. He wonders how Diarmuid knew to tell him.

He waits for Diarmuid to go on, but no more words are forthcoming. He pulls his disappointment inside himself and shrouds the ache with it, like armour.

A lurking, uneasy silence falls once more between them as they continue on. This part of their journey is mercifully brief, before Diarmuid exclaims with relief at the sight of the grove which holds the roots they need. From there they need only kneel for a few minutes to uncover the pale things, and cut a few away to take back with them.

As they trudge back towards the monastery, he tries to put to rest the warring emotions inside him – relief to soon be in company once more which does not test his desire, and reluctance to be away from the very one who awakens it.

It is not that he distrusts himself around Diarmuid. He would put himself to the sword before hurting him. Nor is it that he feels he is capable of seduction, of ravishment. He would never profane the body Diarmuid uses to till God’s earth, to write God’s words, to pray. But he worries that, for Diarmuid’s hands, he might do anything – even if it were terrible.

That is the terrible crux of it. He does not seek to be worshipped. He seeks to worship.

So consumed by his thoughts, he nearly stumbles into Diarmuid’s back when he stops suddenly, frozen in his tracks. In an instant, his sight is clear, his ears prick up to catch danger on the wind. The wrens are silent, and Diarmuid’s breathing is quick.

He steps in front of Diarmuid, his hand itching for a sword that he no longer carries. His eyes flick from tree to tree, seeking out strangers.

“No – no, it is only –”

Diarmuid’s voice comes just as his gaze lands on the carcass.

It is a bird. A bird torn to shreds by a fox, no doubt, but the kill is fresh. They must have startled the creature into abandoning his dinner.

These are the things which he understands, distantly, to be true. But there is blood, red and glinting on the leaves. The sight of it repulses him, angers him. He feels a terrible rage race through him. His limbs start to tremble, and his stomach heaves. Turning away, he is sick, but before he can clean himself up, he stumbles further – away from the blood, away from the death, away from the terrible things he will do –

Diarmuid might be calling for him, but he cannot hear anything over the wailing of his ghosts, the screams and cries of dead and dying men who curse him, curse the pope, curse God himself in their final moments. He covers his ears but they do not stop, and the ground below him rises and falls faster than his feet can comprehend, until finally, he falls.

On the ground, he shivers and shakes, unable to rid himself of the desperate urge to fight, to survive at any cost. There is no danger here. There is danger everywhere. No one is going to hurt him. He is going to hurt someone.

Someone touches his back as he kneels, and he starts violently, snarling as he shoves them to the ground. Blind with terror, his hands scrabble uselessly, looking for somewhere to land a blow, but the voice –

“It’s me, it’s me! Please, it’s me –”

_Diarmuid_.

His vision clears. The blood subsides, rolling back into the sea like an errant wave.

“It’s me. It’s me.”

He stares, horrified, at his handiwork.

Diarmuid’s face is contorted by fear, but rapidly shifting, becoming something more fraternal – something which cares, soothes. He looks upon Diarmuid with a yawning void opening inside him, tearing him to pieces, desperate for forgiveness. Later he will hate himself for it, for seeking comfort in forgiveness when he deserves no such thing – not from Diarmuid.

As he breathes harshly, coming back to himself, unclenching his fists from where they clutch Diarmuid’s collar, he starts to lean back, shaking from what he nearly did. But Diarmuid follows him, murmuring nonsense, repetitive and soothing. Diarmuid raises two hands to the back of his head and pulls, bringing their foreheads together.

He cannot fathom how long they sit, him half-straddling Diarmuid, hands hanging useless at his sides, while Diarmuid combs his fingers through the hair at the back of his scalp and whispers meaningless comfort. He keeps his eyes open, though Diarmuid’s are shut, and he breathes, trying to subdue his racing heart.

Eventually, Diarmuid’s eyes open. His voice dies away as they look at one another. The words for what has just passed do not exist. The words for what he feels, closer to Diarmuid now than he has been to anyone since arriving at the monastery, do not exist either. All he knows is exhaustion and starvation for the sensation of skin against skin.

With a peculiar sense of certainty, he realises that something is going to happen. Diarmuid’s eyes flick down, towards his mouth, and every thought in his head is overtaken by a single word: _please_.

He stops breathing, just as Diarmuid’s eyes begin to flicker shut once more.

But at that moment, a wren begins to sing again, and he tenses with remembered fear. Diarmuid leans back, unable to get out from underneath him, and he scrambles backwards at the realisation, revolted at himself. For a few moments more, there is silence between them.

“We ought to be getting back,” Diarmuid says, swallowing.

He looks to the ground, ashamed, and nods.

The walk back is filled with birdsong, but no more words pass between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the end! 
> 
> I'd really love to know what you guys think of this fic, if there's any scenes you loved or anything you didn't expect!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... Fic rating earned ...

In the coming days, they do not see each other quite so often. Of course they are still in each other’s space all the time, because the monastery is small, and there is not much to be done about that. But there is very little reason for them to be alone together as they have been of late.

He is torn on that. In one way he is grateful to be taken away from Diarmuid, lest his hunger and his longing become too much, and he does something to drive Diarmuid away from him in disgust. He does not think he could bear it. But then, has he not already done so? Without ever touching him in the way his heart aches for, Diarmuid has already withdrawn from him, become silent and wary. So in another way, he ought to simply be thankful that circumstances are separating them.

But he is not, of course he is not. Not where it counts, in his heart of hearts, where only God can know. God is the only one that matters anyhow. Whatever temptation this is – a devotion perverted by lust, or desire lifted to holiness – God is the one who judges him for it. (At least while it is his feeling alone, and no one knows of it.)

As the days grow ever milder, easing into Spring with a well-worn grace, they who survive in this harsh land become used to the weather, and ease away from the more difficult preparations against the harsh snow and chilling rain of Winter. The monks go to their prayers with more ease, and are more apt to fall asleep during them, too. He never tells when he sees them at it. God has blessed them well enough to forgive such small transgressions.

Perhaps, though, it is for these transgressions that God sees fit to send a sudden storm upon them in the middle of a cloudless day.

It is not the first, but one of the _few_ chores that he has been sent to complete with Diarmuid alone since the trip into the woods. As has become their custom, they walk in silence along the beach, scouring the sand for molluscs to bring home. He makes his attempts at focusing on the task at hand, but fails quite spectacularly, as has become _his_ custom where Diarmuid is concerned.

Still, he certainly is not paying attention to the sky, which is his mistake.

A sudden gust off the sea sends tiny needles of sand scouring against his neck, and he looks up, blinking against it, over the ocean. The horizon is dark, much darker than it had been mere minutes before. Brooding grey clouds light up intermittently from afar, and the gust whines its way into a gale as he stands there staring at the approaching squall. A storm like this one will leave them soaked and possibly even drowned, if they are not careful.

With that realisation, he remembers Diarmuid, and feels a thrill of fear make its way across his skin, spurring him into action.

Turning quickly, he jogs up the beach towards Diarmuid, who himself seems to have noticed the oncoming rain, paused as he is to look over the ocean with a concerned frown marking his forehead. Diarmuid glances towards him, moving closer.

“I do not know – the monastery, it is too far –”

He shakes his head, grabs Diarmuid’s hand without a second thought, and begins pulling him towards the cliffs. The rocky face is dangerous in such high winds, but nearby, a little way up the less steep side, there is a cave opening he has seen from afar. He only hopes it will be stable and deep enough to shelter them.

As they clamber up the rocks, the wind begins to scream, and his grip tightens on Diarmuid’s hand, heart pounding with fear. They stumble and falter over the unstable rocks which lead up the cliffside. Diarmuid is hampered by his robes, but he presses onwards, hardly slowing them at all, knowing that shelter is vital if they wish to survive the bone-chilling rain and icy wind.

His body has survived worse, but the years have taken their toll, and he is not so strong as he once was, despite his musculature. The going is difficult, his breath harsh against his lungs, but he never loses his grip on Diarmuid’s hand. He must find safety for Diarmuid. That goal is worth far more than his own safety.

Finally, the cave opening draws near, and as they take their final hurried steps inside, the rain finally hits – battering the rock with fierce intensity, while the wild wind howls in celebration of the chaos. Breathing heavily, he pauses to watch the entrance for a moment, feeling Diarmuid come to a stop beside him. A gust of wind nearly soaks him through with rain, and Diarmuid tugs at his arm, pulling them both deeper into the cave, away from the cold.

The walls of the cave are surprisingly straight, almost as if made by men. The cities that he has seen contained cathedrals and palaces with sharp angles and rigid shapes like these. The dark stone forms columns which attach to one another, slotted perfectly into place. But no man could be responsible for such a structure, so deep in the earth, so massive, and so ancient. God himself must be responsible for this haven.

Their footsteps echo clearly through the air, and the low moan of the wind makes the back of his neck prickle, though he is far too old and has seen far too much to be scared of the wind as children are. Diarmuid’s hand in his is clammy, and he squeezes it – whether for his comfort or Diarmuid’s, he will not admit. Diarmuid gently squeezes back, and slows to a halt. They should not proceed much further, now that they are away from the wind and rain and the ground is flattening out, not so treacherous as it was. An occasional gust will be nothing to fear so deep in this shelter.

“Look,” Diarmuid whispers.

He tries not to jump at the sound, amplified by the cave. Diarmuid drops his hand, and before he can swallow down regret, he follows Diarmuid’s hand with his eyes to where he is pointing. He is startled to discover a pile of dry sticks and logs in a dark corner, almost totally hidden within the shadows of the cave. His footsteps create more noise than his throat has in months (it might be years now; he does not keep track,) as he moves to inspect the pile. The wood is old and brittle, but even underneath quite dry – it has probably been lying in this spot for many months. Whoever put it together is likely not coming back soon.

He gathers several pieces together without glancing back at Diarmuid, and brings them to the centre of the stony floor of the cave. There are the remnants, here, of previous fires – little soot marks marring the sandy stone floor. That is a good sign. Between that and the dry wood, no flooding is imminent. Diarmuid takes several pieces and begins to arrange them, but looks somewhat hesitant about the endeavour.

“I do not have flint,” he says, chewing his lip.

He shakes his head in reassurance. He reaches into a pocket sewn into the inside of his shirt – a gift from a traveller, a sick woman’s handmaiden whose mistress sought the miracle of the rock – and pulls out a striking steel and a piece of flint. Diarmuid’s face relaxes from its pinched expression at the sight, and he stifles a glow of pride at it, the faint urge to smile.

“You take care of us always,” Diarmuid says, softly.

A little guilt rises at that. He cares about them all, even those he shares no friendship with, but … above all, beyond duty … There is only Diarmuid.

It takes him long minutes to start the fire. He struggles with the flint as Diarmuid watches, waving him away when he tries to intervene or offer help. It is only a fire, after all, and he wants to do this himself. Whatever Brother Rua may believe, he is not a halfwit, and he can provide for those who shelter him. He can do this for Diarmuid. And maybe Diarmuid will even look at him the way he used to, with gratitude and wonder in his eyes, and say –

The fire finally bursts into life. An errant spark leaps entirely away from where he was aiming it, catching on a bit of bark hanging off one of the twigs. Diarmuid exclaims with surprise, but laughs as the flames catch, slowly settling over the dry wood.

He watches carefully, makes adjustments to ensure it will stay lit, and feels that terrible, sweet warmth unfurl through his chest when Diarmuid sighs with pleasure at the warmth the fire provides.

For some time, they sit side by side in the cave, listening to the storm rage outside. Occasionally, gusts of icy wind rattle through the cave and cause the fire to sputter. But it never goes out under his watchful eye. The echoes of the cave carry faint dripping sounds from deep within, but they do not venture any further, both implicitly agreeing to stay near the entrance and the warmth.

After some time, Diarmuid brings his hands out of his sleeves and holds them closer to the fire. Glancing over, he sees Diarmuid wince, and frowns. As he continues to observe, Diarmuid moves his hands closer to the fire – too close. He tenses, but Diarmuid moves them away at the last moment.

He looks down at Diarmuid’s hands, concerned, and sees little red welts near the tips of his fingers which stand out vividly against the white of his chilled skin. For a moment, an awful moment, he fears that Diarmuid is sickening in secret.

But no. As he looks more closely, he sees that Diarmuid’s welts are no more than chilblains. Before he can look away, Diarmuid’s embarrassed voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Chilblains,” he explains. “They come with the cold. Brother Ciaran says I must try to keep my hands warm to prevent them, but …”

He inclines his head in understanding. The work of running this monastery requires many hands. Diarmuid cannot be spared for the sake of painful but essentially harmless irritations. He remembers that his father used to get them too, on his fingers and toes during winter. His mother used to rub the warmth back into them with her own strong hands, gently as she was able to while he pretended to fuss.

Perhaps it is because he is reminded of a life long since lost to him that he holds out his hands in offer to Diarmuid.

Diarmuid stares at him for a moment. His eyes flicker down towards his hands, and back up again. He swallows.

“Thank you,” is all he says.

He shifts closer, until their knees press together, facing one another cross-legged on the floor of the cave. Diarmuid holds out his hands, and he takes them in his own. Diarmuid’s skin is rough from work, covered in callouses and chilblains, and cold to the touch – but still, he thinks he has never felt any cloth as fine. For a few minutes, all he does is press gently at the palms, rubbing in circles to encourage the blood to flow back into the extremities. His gaze remains on the work, downcast, so he is unprepared when Diarmuid begins to speak.

“May I tell you a story?”

Diarmuid’s voice sounds strange in some way he cannot identify. He pauses for a moment in his uncertainty, but glancing up gives him no answers – the look in Diarmuid’s eyes is equally as confusing as his words. He nods, curious, and lowers his gaze once more.

“When I was very young,” Diarmuid begins, “There was an old woman who lived at the edge of the woods. The brothers always warned me to stay away from her – and in truth, I thought she must be a witch. But one day I went playing in the woods, and as children do … I lost my way. It was getting dark. I did not know the way home. I began to fear I would be lost forever, but just as thought occurred to me, I was found.”

The faintest ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. He can hear Diarmuid smiling sheepishly through his next words.

“Yes, you have it. The old woman. I thought for sure she had come to devour me or else use me in some wicked ritual. But she simply shook her head at me, and said, _now how have we gotten so far from home, little one_? And she took my hand and led me through the woods herself. The whole time she scolded me! She told me if I was not careful, the _aes sídhe_ would steal me away. You could imagine my amazement, when for so long I thought that was _her_ intention!”

Diarmuid laughs at himself. He switches his focus to Diarmuid’s right hand, pulling at the skin of his fingers with his thumbs, before pressing more gently into the webbed skin between his fingers. Diarmuid’s breath catches for a moment, before he continues.

“When I was returned, I was in terrible trouble with everybody – especially Brother Ciarán, of course. He was very worried. But I learned that day that those who I feared the most might mean me the least harm.”

He shows no sign of understanding what Diarmuid is trying to tell him, though he can hardly breathe. His fingers are steady against Diarmuid’s cool hand, and the gale outside moans mournfully. He focuses on the task at hand.

“She died a few summers ago,” Diarmuid says softly, after a pause. “I found her. I never told the others. I let them discover her themselves and try to keep me from it. But I was the one who found her first.”

They sit in silence a few moments more. He carefully does not look up, focusing all his attention on avoiding the red and white sores at Diarmuid’s knuckles.

“I was always very sorry that I never thanked her for saving me. Sorry that I had not tried harder to befriend her. It is very isolated here, no?” Diarmuid waits for a response that he knows is not coming, and he aches with the knowledge that Diarmuid will always do that for him.

“However lonely I might have felt as a solitary child, I imagine it must have been worse for her, with no one to talk to. Only superstitious monks who kept clear of her home."

Diarmuid shifts, pulling his hands back. He lets go immediately, afraid that he has offended in some way, or hurt him. He keeps his eyes lowered, and waits for Diarmuid to stutter out one of his apologies, or laugh.

But Diarmuid does something awful, something wonderful, instead.

Diarmuid reaches out for his chin, ghosting his fingers along his jawline until they press firmly underneath, pulling his head up. He is forced to look into Diarmuid’s face, and that mysterious thing in Diarmuid’s eyes materialises into a kind of bravery and nervousness, all at once.

He closes his eyes against it, afraid.

Diarmuid moves closer, leaning in to brush their cheeks against each other. His breath stutters out at the sensation, something breaking inside of his chest. He can hear Diarmuid’s breath too, as unsteady as his own. In his ear, Diarmuid’s voice is hushed, blending in with the sound of the rain.

“Please – if I am wrong to do this – please –”

He cannot bear the thought that Diarmuid feels any uncertainty about how he feels. With the kind of slow desperation born of months of longing, he forces his hands to take Diarmuid’s face and hold it steadily against his own, their foreheads touching, their breath mingling.

He still cannot bring himself to take the final step.

But Diarmuid – Diarmuid, who knows the sacred words of the Bible, knows how a kiss can be many things; can be betrayal as Judas Iscariot, can be a plea to never be apart as Ruth to Naomi, can be the ache of a heart long denied as the lover for whom kisses are better than wine – _Diarmuid_ is the one who kisses first. _Diarmuid_ brushes his lips against him with hesitation, yet surety.

A broken sound leaves his throat as he accepts this impossible thing, this miracle. Without thinking, his hands tighten against Diarmuid’s cheeks, and his mouth opens. At that, Diarmuid makes a quiet sound of his own – a sound which signals surprise, and want. It stokes the fire within him. If he had thought in previous months that such longings were rising once more within his body, now he knows that those were mere embers – _this_ ; the simple sensation of Diarmuid’s gentle mouth against his own, is a conflagration.

Diarmuid has never kissed anyone. He is sure of that, but still, despite Diarmuid’s inexperience, he leads them both through it. For himself, he has hardly dared dream of a moment like this – has never allowed himself to indulge in the vague shapes his dreams have been prone to take. Shapes and shadows which looked like this. He will take what Diarmuid gives to him, and burn himself up in it.

It is a kiss which lasts an age. It is a kiss which lasts only seconds. Diarmuid pulls back for only a moment, and he stills, waiting for him to decide whether this miracle will last or fade, like an errant spark in an otherwise unremarkable night. They breathe together. His thumbs move against Diarmuid’s cheekbones.

With deliberate slowness, Diarmuid brings his hand around, settling in the hair which curls at the nape of his neck. He tugs gently, and pulls him in close, until their lips meet again – in a kiss which is harder, _urgent_. A kiss which hungers. Outside, a sudden crack of lightning causes a thunderclap so powerful that for a moment it seems as if the earth itself will split, but he cannot hear, cannot even imagine a world outside of this. Diarmuid is crawling into his lap, pulling their bodies in closer, until they are chest to chest, and he can think of nothing else. All the while Diarmuid moves his mouth experimentally against him, learning the form of desire.

When he dares to run his tongue alone Diarmuid’s lower lip, he is rewarded with a twitch that seems to run through Diarmuid’s whole body; a sudden shock of lightning as powerful as any of those raging over the sea outside. Diarmuid repeats the gesture in return, and a low sound comes from inside his chest entirely without his permission. If he is not careful, he will break more than one vow tonight.

Their kisses grow less refined, more desperate. They each seek the taste of the other, and it is overwhelming, unbelievable that he should be wanted like this. Even as the evidence of it surrounds him.

Diarmuid tightens his fingers in his hair and breaks away to draw air suddenly, gasping. In an instant he understands why – Diarmuid’s hips have settled down against his lap, and without thinking, he had begun to push up against him, instinctively seeking out sensation.

He forces himself to be still, ashamed of his eagerness. Diarmuid presses his face to his neck, breathing heavily, eyes shut. Just as he begins to wonder if he has made a mistake, driven Diarmuid too far, Diarmuid’s hands slide down from the back of his head and over his chest, until they reach the edges of his shirt. Diarmuid pulls his face back to look at him questioningly, uncertainty in his eyes.

He nods his assent.

With a kind of reverence in his face which must be undeserved, Diarmuid begins to pull the roughspun shirt up his body. Scar by ugly scar, he is revealed, until he is forced to raise his arms in order to take the shirt off his head. Then, he is bare, as he once was before, and vulnerable.

Diarmuid looks over his body, and traces every line and mottled piece of skin with tender hands. His face is awestruck; his eyes wide and black.

He cannot understand what he has done – what Diarmuid must see in his body, in _him_ – to deserve such a look.

But then Diarmuid ducks his head once more to kiss him, and he can think only of wonder. For a few moments they are gentle once more, until Diarmuid sinks his teeth into his lip, and a low moan is torn out of him once more. Diarmuid separates their lips again, and looks down at him, worry knitted into his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but cannot seem to find the words.

Searching Diarmuid’s eyes, he realises that Diarmuid needs something more. Not for his body. For his soul.

Without words he cannot affirm what is true. What he knows in his heart – that he would _worship_ Diarmuid if he could. That Diarmuid’s spirit is pure, pure enough to remain untarnished by what blooms between them.

That he loves him. Above all else, as simple and as sweetly painful as it is, he loves him.

With careful movements, he finds the hem of Diarmuid’s robe, and pushes his hands underneath. He slides them up Diarmuid’s thighs slowly, until they rest on Diarmuid’s hips. Diarmuid’s breath quickens, more still as he skates his left hand over Diarmuid’s stomach. To his surprise, Diarmuid is muscled there – for all that he appears small, he is lithe and strong from his work. And he is a man grown, though young compared to those he lives with. The knowledge of Diarmuid’s body thrills him. Almost certainly no one has seen him like this, felt him under their hands. He wants to give his own body in return, in equal parts gratitude and desire to be seen.

He leans up and kisses Diarmuid gently, asking permission. The tension in Diarmuid’s face eases as he takes a moment to look upon him. Whatever he sees must soothe his fear, for he nods.

He wastes no more time, unwilling to prolong Diarmuid’s waiting, and desperate to prove his love while he cannot speak the words. His hand slides down, and finally he touches Diarmuid – with as much care and as much tenderness as he has ever been capable of. Diarmuid lets out a cry that is quickly stifled as he presses his face into his shoulder.

He moves his hand. Slowly, up and down. Diarmuid’s breathing stutters again and again as he chokes on gasps, and his hands tighten on his shoulders, until they are almost painful. The sensation causes him to sigh, as if he can feel what Diarmuid is feeling. He looks up briefly to find Diarmuid staring down at him, jaw slack with overwhelming feeling. For a moment he nearly stills, arrested by the sight, aware suddenly that he will never experience this kind of awe again – not even for God. But at that moment, Diarmuid closes his eyes, and shudders wrack his whole body, and he lets out a quiet sigh, edged with a moan he cannot hold inside.

He feels warmth in his palm, the evidence of Diarmuid’s release, and moves his hand to Diarmuid’s stomach, not wanting to overwhelm him. Diarmuid, breathing harshly, pulls his face in to kiss him – to his surprise. He had thought – perhaps, feared, that for Diarmuid this was only –

Diarmuid runs his hands over his neck with reverence, kisses him like he is worthy of tenderness; and he thinks _of course, of course_. For Diarmuid this _must_ be love. Such a man, marked by holy devotion and the sweetest kindness, would not risk his soul without it. He is not truly concerned, though. Diarmuid’s soul is worthier than any he has ever known.

Diarmuid pulls back, opens his eyes. Looks upon him steadily, though he can still feel Diarmuid’s racing heart underneath his skin.

“I love you.”

Diarmuid says it so honestly – so utterly _truthfully_ – that without any warning, tears prick his eyes.

He tries to clear the lump in his throat, but cannot. Diarmuid strokes his face; kisses his eyelids, his cheeks, his beard. Murmurs _it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s just me, we’re all right_. He is a man grown and does not cry but for when his ghosts come or he is dreaming, yet Diarmuid allows him no shame, enclosing them both in the safety of the cave with his words. God alone knows they are here. God alone may judge them.

After a few moments, Diarmuid’s hands begin to slip down his body, and he shakes, both afraid and wanting. It has been many years since this. But Diarmuid continues to whisper to him, soothing his fear, as he reaches inside rough fabric to touch him. And then his body begins to _sing_.

Diarmuid is a quick and eager learner in this as he is in all things. He copies what was done to him precisely, but dares to makes alterations, squeezing a little harder or a little softer, moving his arm more quickly or more slowly, as his will dictates.

Or rather, as the responses he provokes do. Diarmuid seems determined to make this an experience he will be unable to put from his mind for weeks and months – as if he would need anything more than what has already passed for that to occur. Nevertheless, every sensation has him panting, pressing his face to Diarmuid’s chest with his eyes screwed shut in this wondrous agony. Diarmuid sometimes falls silent, concentrating, but resumes his murmuring each time. He says impossible things. Things like _you are beautiful, you are kind. You are good, you have been so good to me, to us. I love you, I love you, I love you_.

It is upon the third _I love you_ that relief comes, and his body finally gives him the release he needs. He groans into Diarmuid’s chest, and Diarmuid falls silent, kissing his hair. They sit as they are for some time, while tears continue to flow from his face, though he makes no sound.

He does not feel overwhelmed. Does not feel wretched in the judgement of his Lord, or despairing that he will never have this again. He feels no shame or sorrow that by rights he might have after this transgression against the laws of men.

He feels, for the first time in his life, entirely sure. He is as certain as only love can make one, and that is something he never understood before. There is only this. He and Diarmuid. Untainted and pure and made holy through God’s love. Through God _making_ them to love.

Eventually, they pull away from each other to clean up, and he arranges his shirt on the ground so that Diarmuid may lie upon it. He rests his head against Diarmuid’s shoulder, curls up as closely to him as a child. The peace which bloomed in his chest, he knows, cannot last forever. There will surely be considerations for both of them when they return to the monastery – who can never know, who they might trust to know eventually, whether it is even possible for them to be as they are and remain at the monastery.

But they will discover a way of being together. He knows that Diarmuid will never ask the impossible of him by forcing him to speak. Diarmuid, better than anyone save perhaps Brother Ciarán, understands his ghosts and the things he must do to stave them off. Diarmuid is able to do that in a way Brother Ciarán never could regardless.

They will find a way to make this miracle stay.

Diarmuid strokes his back, minding his scars carefully. He looks up, into Diarmuid’s eyes. They are as dark and deep as always, and thoughtful, too. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch at the sight of Diarmuid looking so pensive, as serious as any scholar.

“I believe that’s the first time I have ever seen you smile,” Diarmuid whispers. “I should know. I said a great many silly things hoping they would make you laugh.”

The sudden understanding that Diarmuid might have been trying to cheer him even in his blackest moods, and was not necessarily as blithe as he had seemed, makes him blink. Diarmuid grins.

“I love you,” he confesses, again. “I am sorry for saying so often. I thought it so many times –”

He presses his hand to Diarmuid’s mouth, shaking his head. Willing Diarmuid to understand, he moves his hand to his own chest, where he can feel his heart beating, and then settles it over Diarmuid’s heart.

Diarmuid understands. As always. He smiles, and places his hand over the top, holding him close to his heart.

The world outside remains a tempest, impossible to enter into, necessary to shelter from. Men still fight bloody battles for little gain, and leave them as broken souls. Still other men take God’s light and pervert it for the cause of greed. But in here, safe from the rain, the howling of the wind, the violence of war, and the judgement of men, there is only the knowledge of love. And it is knowledge that will sustain him for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took out the tag about leaving Diarmuid's age ambiguous, because I've pretty much always headcanoned/written him as being between nineteen and twenty-one. (I believe Tom Holland was nineteen-twenty at the time of filming?) And as I was writing a sex scene, I wanted to ensure that Diarmuid was written as being of age and very much an adult, albeit a young adult. It's just a personal squick of mine to write anything underage (though clearly age gaps in general aren't so bothersome considering my ships!)
> 
> This is I think my second or third sex scene I've written, and it was a doozy. Plus it's the only one attached to this particular account! Would appreciate thoughts (but be gentle aahhh!)
> 
> [Fingal's Cave](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fingal%27s_Cave) is, obviously, in Scotland - not Ireland. But it's fucking gorgeous, so I do what I want.
> 
> As a chilblain sufferer: they are not contagious, they are painful, and they are caused by temperature fluctuations, particularly the cold. But they're only small and more of a nuisance than anything else. My girlfriend is very sweet and tries to romance me by warming my hands - hence, this!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. It's been a great journey. For a tiny fandom I think we're pretty sweet <3 Please don't be shy about leaving a comment, especially if there were any scenes or moments you liked!

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


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